


The Poor Management of Mischief and Its Remarkable Consequences

by KinoiTales



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Clothed Sex, Compromised Judgment, Dominance/submission, Double Penetration, Gay Sex, Kissing, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Negotiation, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KinoiTales/pseuds/KinoiTales
Summary: Divus Crewel puts a plan into action, Mister Sam has the goods.Mozus Trein enjoys a party, Dire Crowley is a victim of happenstance.Ashton Vargas goes on a wild goose chase and is in way over his head.
Relationships: Ashton Vargas/Sam (Twisted-Wonderland), Mozus Trein/Divus Crewel/Dire Crowley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	The Poor Management of Mischief and Its Remarkable Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at it again with my asinine patented brand of debauchery. I'm a tremendous fan of the NRC faculty, so what better way to honor them than writing a story about them boning? It's kind of what I do. 
> 
> (One day I'll finish each and every one of my orgy stories. One day...)

One of the most peculiar faculty incidents in Night Raven College history began on a less-than-spectacular note. It very well could have—no, _should_ have—come to pass in much the same manner, given the circumstances.

There were several distinctive forces at work: namely, the irrepressible curiosity of one Divus Crewel, premier instructor of Alchemical Studies. A shrewd man of refined temperament who reveled in putting others in their place. A rush of power not unlike a drug.

For the most part the constituents of the student body were simple nuts to crack, often disappointingly so. Those who displayed a certain constitution were far and few between. Discipline was his forte, so those whelps could be counted on to come around one way or another.

Not long into his tenure, things turned stale and mundane, and Divus Crewel found himself in a slump. Routine truly gave way to monotony, and one day would blur imperceptibly into the next.

Then, on one sunny morning, he received an dispatch concerning the upcoming in-office birthday celebration scheduled to be held for “esteemed colleague” Mozus Trein the following evening.

An hour later Divus found himself visited by the semblance of strange, unquiet thoughts while pouring his first cup of pitch-black espresso. Rather than dismiss those ghastly musings forthwith as logic dictated, a small voice in the back of his mind urged him not to reject any ideas.

 _Imagine,_ the shadows spoke, their whispers like velvet. _How delightful it would be to crush that unflinching composure and lay his true self bare to the world!_ Yes, all men are mongrels in some respect, however minor. Surely, the prim and proper historian was no exception...

A thin smile crept across his lips between sips of coffee. Like a well-oiled machine, the gears in his mind clicked in rapid succession and within minutes the pieces of a devious plan fell into place. When he at long last rose to deposit his empty cup into the sink, there was a glint of determination in his eyes.

Things were about to get very, _very_ interesting.

\-----

Divus Crewel spent much of the time leading up to the gathering mentally rehearsing and fine-tuning various elements of his ambitious scheme. He was confident that it could play out in only a handful of ways, some more enticing where others promised convenience. Among various details, they had in common a single, critical component:

The question of a catalyst which would better ensure the success of his plan. Both he and Trein were men of tact; use of brute force was decidedly a non-option. It was therefore necessary that means exist to coax assent from the unsuspecting party in the most unobtrusive manner he could muster. To his credit, Divus knew just the class of tinctures for the job. And while he briefly entertained the idea of handling the manufacture of one such brew himself, he was aware that that carried with it too many risks. 

—After all, naïve puppies are wont to poke their noses where they don't belong.

So he instead settled for enlisting the aid of another, one who had proven to be both a reliable and discreet source of goods and services throughout his years spent at NRC. One phone call later and arrangements were made. His contact asked for two things in exchange: compensation at their appointed meeting time and place, and full disclosure of his experience with the product at a later date.

Divus Crewel spent the forty some-odd hours leading up to the gala in high spirits, anticipation buoying his outlook. He retired to his chambers at a reasonable time, and he woke well-rested. He used the afternoon to meticulously groom himself and piece together his attire for the evening: a simple red dress shirt, black tie, and matching black tuxedo jacket. He selected a bottle of Cabernet from his cellar (what man _doesn't_ appreciate a glass of fine wine with his birthday dinner?) before slipping on his gloves and polished Oxfords. He paused on his way out to retrieve his beloved collar-riding crop accessory. He twirled it in his hand and tested the leather for slack, smiling all the while, before rapping the band against his palm.

_Excellent._

Crewel's residence, like much of the faculty housing, was located along the perimeter of the campus. Fortunately, the party was being held at Trein's abode, which amounted to a short walk down the winding road that marked the border of NRC grounds. Instead of passing through the grand oaken double doors at the front, Divus made a beeline for the western face of the building. There, true to his word, stood his contact, lanky figure blurred against the twilit sky.

“Well met, shopkeep.”

The other man pivoted on his heel, grinning broadly as he bowed in greeting. “And a fine evening to you as well, Mister Crewel.”

Before Crewel could utter another word, he was presented with a pearly vial of sparkling liquid. He swirled the contents briefly before examining the mixture against the fading light. Once the particles settled, he produced from his breast pocket a hefty wad of madols, which he gently pressed into the man's upturned palm. “I don't know how you do it, Sam.”

Sam snickered, his hands sifting through the bills with practiced ease. “You know what they say about keeping up appearances—well, for me, that's half the job. I have a very trustworthy network of suppliers and connections. That's all you need to know.”

“Ah,” Crewel huffed flatly, turning to start toward the entrance of the house. “Trade secrets. I wouldn't dream of prying—”

“Oh, Mister Crewel.”

Crewel angled his gaze to regard the merchant. “Yes?”

“I do hope for some feedback on this product. It's new and I've never stocked it in my store: what you have there is a sample.”

“Very well.”


End file.
